Red Herring
by Cathartes
Summary: Jane doesn't have to be professional – that’s what Lisbon is there for. And when a fellow cop starts showing interest in his boss, Jane intends to take full advantage of that fact.
1. Jason Sanborn

**Red Herring**

_I do not own any part of The Mentalist and am making no profit from this work of fanfiction._

**().().().().()**

"Damnit, Jane, you should have listened to me out there! There are procedures for these situations, do you even understand that, there are rules!?"

"Well, I was in kind of a tight spot," Jane defended himself mildly.

"You shouldn't have been there at all. You should have stayed in the car. _I told you to stay in the car."_

"Well, I did, at first. But, you know, it got really hot."

"Hot."

"Yes, I was sweating. I hate that. And you had been gone for a long time. So I just came up to see how things were going . . ."

"And walked into a firefight."

"A very small firing incident, yes. And I'm sorry for that. Really. I am." Jane reached to touch Lisbon's hand where it rested on her desk, but she jerked it back.

"_Don't move, said Lisbon calmly, coming from around the corner, into the line of fire. "Let's all try to relax, okay? You okay, Jane?"_

"_I'm okay," said Jane, checking quickly to see if it was true. _

"_Get your voice out of my head! You're trying to take over my mind, I know you are, but I swear, I'll shoot you first!"_

"_You don't want to do that," warned Lisbon softly. Jane could see her eyes tracking the gun, judging its distance and direction. She didn't look at him at all._

"_She's right," he said, taking a chance by stepping a little closer, holding his hands in front of him, open and empty. _

"_Jane," said Lisbon._

"Have we found out who he was?" asked Jane.

"Yeah, Jason Sanborn, 28. Diagnosed _paranoid schizophrenic_," said Lisbon shaking her head, motioning to the open file on her desk. "Institutionalized until the state shut down the program, no history of violence, ended up homeless on the streets of Sacramento."

"I'm sorry."

"If you actually feel remorse, why don't you ever do what I tell you to do?"

"Sometimes I do try," offered Jane hopefully. "But I've just got to think outside the box, you know? I can't exactly consult the playbook every time."

"Consult the playbook," repeated Lisbon slowly. "That's foolish to you, right?"

"_Back up, Jane." Lisbon worked to maintain a non-threatening posture while keeping the gun absolutely level. If he fired, would Jane have time to get to cover? Would Jane even know to run for cover when the shooting started? Jane wasn't trained for combat. He was likely to pop up his head at a bad moment and get hit – even if he managed to stay out of the cross-fire, which he also wasn't trained to do. "Jane!" She bit off another exclamation._ Just like training a dog, _she reminded herself; _don't repeat commands.

_If he made it out of here alive, she was going to kill him._

"Well, not foolish, no, but it certainly does hamper the creative process . . ."

"I suppose that's your privilege as a consultant," said Lisbon, with only the slightest, most imperceptible hint of distain in her voice at the word. It would have gone unnoticed by anybody except Patrick Jane, but he was watching her face intently and caught the faint wrinkling of her nose, as if, for a microsecond, she smelled something unpleasant.

"Oh really," he prompted, intrigued by this response. "Please do explain."

_He made a movement that Jane couldn't follow, but it ended with a crack of gunfire, and the gunman fell forward, on to his knees, and then slumped on the floor. Now Jane could see the widening cavern opening in the back of his head . . . _

"_Jane, back up," ordered Lisbon, pulling out the radio clipped to her hip; "Central, this is Lisbon, we've got a suspect down." She spoke with one hand holding down the button on the radio while she covered the suspect with the other. Jane didn't understand why; he was obviously dead._

_The radio coughed and clattered in response, but Lisbon apparently understood it since she responded, "Copy that." _

"It's not your mess at the end of the day, Jane, you're not a cop. You're not the one that killed somebody today, that was me. And when you chose to shoot somebody, and end their lives, when you make that decision, let me tell you it feels damn good to have an objective standard to fall back on, and not some spur-of-the-moment hunch!"

Okay, maybe he'd hit a nerve. "Lisbon - "

She set her jaw. "I don't need sympathy, Jane. I sleep just fine at night." She did, too – he could tell by the steadiness of her hands as she stacked papers and her nice pink fingernails. If she wasn't sleeping, they'd be blue or grey. He should know. "I'm just saying, the reason I can live with my choices is because I have rules to follow. That's what it means to be a Professional. It's not because we're stupid, or lack imagination, or whatever else you tell yourself when you're ignoring what I say to you. We do it because it's the only way to live with the consequences of the decisions that we have to make. That's what keeps me from being an obsessive lunatic – "

_Like you_, were the words hanging in the air.

Lisbon blew out a breath. "Jane, I'm sorry. I'm tired and it's probably not a good idea to have this conversation right now."

_Dead instantly, she thought, judging the position of the wound. She felt the usual sense of deflation as the glanced at the slack, empty face. Not pity, exactly; not regret. She supposed it would have been possible to take a different shot, to take out his kneecaps or strike a shoulder, but wasn't how she was trained. Leaving someone on their feet was a good way to end up dead. _

"No, finish it. I want to hear."

"It's just - you've got one plan – kill Red John, and then it's over. But in my job, I have to shoot the bad guy and show up for work the next day, ready to go again. I'm the one with the protocols because in the end, the big decisions are my responsibility. And you may not respect that, this may be a game to you, and that's fine, because you're not the one who killed somebody today - killed however many people this year. "

"I know." He leaned close to her pale cheek, pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I'm sorry you had to kill someone, Lisbon." _Again_.

"I'm not," she replied firmly. "Because I know it was the right call."

Before Jane could answer, they were interrupted by the phone at Lisbon's desk. She picked it up on the second ring, spoke crisply into the line; "Senior Agent Lisbon, Serious Crimes." While she listened, she made eye contact with Jane, mouthed _new case_. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Got that. Okay, we'll be there in a couple hours."

_Someday she'd be too slow, too slow to save Jane on his next fatuous mission or too slow to figure out what he meant and finally lose control of him altogether. Someday he'd go off the rails and she'd be two steps behind him the whole way, not putting the pieces together until too late. Then she'd know real failure, when Patrick Jane tricked her and used her and ended up dead, or a butcher who would have been better off dead than what he was. _

She hung up the phone, took a breath, and then turned to brush past Jane, gathering her jacket and shoulder holster off the coat rack. She leaned out of the doorway into the bullpen.

"Let's pack it up, guys, we got a body."

From beyond the door Jane could hear the squeaking of chairs and the sound of drawers being opened and closed, as the agents geared up for the field.

-

_Chapter Two_:

"What's she like," asked Buchanan, looking after her appreciatively.

"Lisbon?" Jane frowned. "She's got control issues."


	2. Matt Castelhano

**Red Herring: **

Chapter Two

_I do not own any part of The Mentalist and am making no profit from this work of fanfiction._

**().().().().()**

Jane knew he wasn't entirely forgiven because Lisbon took Cho in her SUV out to the crime scene, leaving Jane with Rigsby and Van Pelt. Being made to ride with the kids, obviously, was part of his punishment.

And it was a long ride to the dump site, which was a good way out into the desert. Lisbon was already out of the car when they pulled up, leaning over a sad bundle of clothing, while the air around her shimmered with heat. Behind her, the medical examiner and the local cops were grouped like a Greek chorus.

"Looks like a hit," she reported, as Rigsby and Jane walked up.

"How do you get that?" asked Van Pelt from behind them.

"GSW to the back of the head." Lisbon positioned her face approximately two inches from the victim's. They were almost touching noses. "No exit wound so the maybe bullet is still in there – I'm guessing a .38, maybe? The shell casing is gone. I'm not seeing any contact burns, so he was shot from a distance, at least a couple of feet."

"He's stiff," Rigsby observed.

"Yeah, he's been here a while. Hard to know in this heat, though."

Cho wandered over from his conversation with the medical examiner. "Not much to go on," he reported.

Lisbon pushed her dark hair out of her face as she stood, and Jane thought she looked tired. "Ok, whatta we got?"

"Patrol got a tip from the locals this morning – apparently folks come out here to do drugs, race dirtbikes, that kind of thing. Whoever called it in didn't have much to say, just that there was a body on Route 12."

"I was first on the scene," volunteered one of the uniformed officers, coming forward. "I verified the tip and called it in." He didn't look much older than 21, thin and reedy. His navy blue pants fit him badly.

"This is your first?" asked Lisbon.

He nodded. "I didn't touch anything, just like they teach you. They sent Detective Buchanan to secure the scene. I'm Officer Harris."

"Good work, Harris," said Lisbon. "Can you point out Buchanan to me?"

Hearing his name, the Detective broke off his conference with a group of crime scene techs to approach. He was a short, well-built man with ash-blonde hair cut in the traditional cop style. "That'd be me," he said, extending his hand. "Jim Buchanan, Mono County Homicide."

"Teresa Lisbon, the Agent in charge," said Lisbon amiably, shaking his hand.

"He was meeting someone," announced Jane, studying the dry earth at the roadside.

There was a moment's pause. "This is Patrick Jane, a consultant with the CBI, and these are my agents Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt," said Lisbon. Patrick wondered if he imagined the faint pride in her voice at the words _my agents_ and felt a momentary regret that he had not been introduced as _my consultant_.

"Who's the dead guy?" he inquired. Since everybody else had been introduced, it seemed rude to exclude the corpse.

"We made an ID from the wallet," said Buchanan. "His names Matt Castelhano, Senator's aid out of San Bernadino."

"Long way from home," noted Rigsby, frowning.

"He drove here just for this meeting," said Jane. "And whoever he met with killed him."

"He always just throw his theories out like that?" asked Buchanan of Lisbon, as if Jane couldn't hear him.

"Always," Lisbon replied.

"That ever bother you?"

"You need good self-esteem to be on this squad," Lisbon acknowledged.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Jane.

Lisbon knew he was just annoyed to have been denied his ah-hah moment. "What makes you say there was a meeting?" she inquired calmly, ignoring his question.

"He's got nicotine stains on his fingers, and you can smell the tobacco. He smoked a cigarette while he waited for someone. He came here in a car, parked on the side of the road, and passed the time a while. Maybe five, ten minutes. Whoever showed up, it was who he expected. There's no sign of a struggle. He was taken by surprise."

"If it were me, I'd probably go nuts," Buchanan admitted. "That doesn't bother you?"

"Jane brings a lot to our cases," said Lisbon with a shrug. "I try to leave my ego at the door when we're dealing with a murder."

Jane had a little frown as he continued. "There must have been two of them, at least," he speculated, "to drive both cars away from the scene."

"Van Pelt, put out a BOLO on Mr. Castelhano's car," Lisbon directed. "Cho, call the Senator he worked for, see if he knew what he was doing here. Rigsby, try to track down the family."

"He's married, no kids," offered Buchanan.

"Great – Rigsby, we're going to want an interview with the wife."

"I'll have my guys start canvassing the gas stations," said Buchanan, "there's not too many of them around here."

"Two cars travelling together, might be noticed," agreed Lisbon, nodding her head. "Have them get copies of any security footage." Plans set, she turned to go - all business, noted Jane. "I'll keep you in the loop," she tossed back to Buchanan, over her shoulder. "Call if you get something."

"Okay . . . Teresa?"

"Everybody calls me Lisbon."

"Like the city," he said, nodding. "Got it. You ever been there?"

Lisbon was already half-way back to the car. "Only the one in Ohio."

...

She had apparently softened up enough to allow Jane in the car with her, which he was thankful for since Rigsby had left without him. She also didn't comment when he fussed with the air conditioning or turned on the radio, so he suspected her thoughts were elsewhere.

They spent the day making the rounds that accompany a homicide in a small county – first to hear the coroners' report (dead less than 3 days, no defensive wounds), then briefing the local Sheriff and the Township Supervisor. Neither had any insight, but Lisbon said it was polite to include the locals on an investigation taking place on their soil. "Because otherwise, they could shoot you," she explained helpfully to Jane.

Rigsby and Cho returned late in the evening from an interview with Ms. Castelhano that had apparently gone badly. "She saw him yesterday morning, and didn't know anything," Cho reported, dropping his briefcase on the temporary desk the CBI team was currently occupying at the County PD.

Rigsby, two steps behind him, rubbed his face and sighed. "And she cried. A lot."

"I hate that," Van Pelt sympathized.

"Claims she thought her husband was at work like normal, has no idea why he'd be out on a desert road or who he might have been meeting."

"No familiarity with the area," added Cho. "For either of them."

"So maybe whoever he was meeting picked the location," suggested Jane thoughtfully. "But why that particular stretch of road – that suggests to me that the killer, at least, must have known this desert."

"Found the Castelhano car," announced Buchanan, coming in through the door from outside. "It was dumped off Canyon Road, found at the base of the hill. The Techs are going over it now, maybe they'll find something that can lead us to the killer."

"I doubt it," said Jane. "Whoever did this seems to have had a well-organized plan. I don't think they'd get sloppy at the end."

"Maybe." Buchanan shook his head and cast an glance at Lisbon. "I don't know how you do it," he said.

Jane was pretty sure he wasn't talking to him.

"I had a lot of younger brothers," Lisbon offered. "And a Golden Retriever." That's how she thought of Jane: two parts little boy, one part dog.

"So you're saying you've done a lot of babysitting, then," said Buchanan, smiling slightly.

"This is the culmination of a long career."

They were cops, cops together, thought Jane – joking with lethal weapons strapped to their waists. They had something in common that he would never have with Lisbon, and that was kind of pissing him off, actually.

Cho and Rigsby returned from a series of phone calls, while Van Pelt was still leaning over her lap top with the phone between her shoulder and her ear. "They would have driven the car about twelve miles to get to the Canyon, no security cameras on the way," Cho confirmed.

"Alright," said Lisbon, "Tomorrow we need to talk to the Senator in person. Find out if Castelhano had a reason to be out here his wife wouldn't know about."

"It's late to head back to Sacramento," said Buchanan, glancing at his cellphone. That indicated to Jane that he must be quite young, as an older man would have been wearing a watch. "Why don't you stay around here tonight? There's a decent Motel 6 up the way."

_Oh yes, you'd like that, wouldn't you? _thought Jane.

Lisbon looked around at her team; they looked undeniably exhausted. Two hot cases in two days, and another long drive ahead of them . . . "Alright," she agreed. "Tonight we stay here, first thing tomorrow we head back to the office."

"Anyone up for drinks?" asked Buchanan hopefully. His mouth said Everyone, but his eyes said, _Lisbon_.

"Sure!" exclaimed Jane broadly. "I'd love a drink! Rigsby, Cho, drinks on Buchanan?"

_Sure, sure_, they agreed, stuffing files into folders.

"Not for me, thanks," Lisbon excused herself; "I'm going to take off early and finish this prelim report. I'll get us the rooms for tonight. Night Jane, night Cho, Rigsby, Van Pelt. Night Buchanan." Calmly and unselfconsciously, she strolled past them and into the dark corridor.

There was a moment of silence as Buchanan regrouped. "What's she like," he asked, looking after her appreciatively.

"Lisbon?" Jane frowned. "She's got control issues."

"She's a good boss," said Cho, filling a shoulder bag with folders. Jane couldn't tell if he was being cagey or obtuse. It was hard to tell with Cho.

"So are we ready to get our drink on?" asked Rigsby, coming over with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his holster packed away. He was obviously excited about an evening in the presence of their red-haired coworker. Jane sighed.

"After you," he indicated to Buchanan, who led the way out of the bullpen.

_Next time: _

_"You know, I believe he's developing quite the thing for you," remarked Jane, casually._

_"Good to know I haven't lost it, after all these years." _


	3. Ray McGillis

**Red Herring:**

Chapter Three

_I do not own any part of The Mentalist and am making no profit from this work of fanfiction._

**().().().().()**

Lisbon evaded any additional offers of hospitality by setting off for Sacramento at the crack of dawn. Jane, who never slept anyway, didn't mind. He made sure to slip into the passenger side of her SUV before she finished loading up, though; when she saw him there, she frowned but said nothing. So as far as he was concerned, they were officially reconciled.

He was happy to be leaving the somber, watchful desert behind. He wanted to be surrounded by the bustle of the city, which gave him less time to think. He was also looking forward to a certain much-maligned leather couch, and the undivided attention of a certain Senior Agent.

His plans were derailed when that same Agent got a call on her cell phone, just as they were getting close to home. He could see the screen from its position on the dashboard: it was Buchanan. "Let me get that for you," he offered smoothly; "I know you hate to talk on the phone and drive."

Lisbon narrowed her eyes and gave him Warning Look # 476 - this one (roughly translated) said, _you're not fooling me, but arguing with you is beneath my dignity at the moment._ An old favorite.

"Special Agent Lisbon's phone, this is Patrick Jane speaking . . . oh _hello,_ Detective Buchanan, how good to hear from you! Yes, we got an early start this morning. Long drive, you know. Mmm-hmm. Oh yes, she's right here next to me. No, she can't talk at the moment. Indisposed. Mmm-hmm."

"You don't have to torment him, Jane," said Lisbon, her tone amused. "He's just calling for a status update."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" asked Jane, his hand over the receiver. "No, Detective, I wasn't talking to you. Yes, I'll be sure to tell her. Now? Okay, hold on a second."

He held the phone away and announced, unimpressed: "Detective Buchanan says he just came from a search of the Mono County archives, and he found two similar cases from five years ago."

"Really?" Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and she leaned a little forward in the seat; Lisbon had a high chase drive. "Great. Have him send over the files."

She pulled into CBI parking lot as Jane repeated these instructions into the phone, and he frowned as he listened to the reply. "He wants to walk them over."

"Give me the phone." Lisbon was sporting #343, which said, _Come not between a Lisbon and her case. _"Listen, Buchanan, this is Lisbon – uh huh. Uh huh. No, you finish that search today and I want you at CBI headquarters first thing tomorrow."

Jane pouted. That was _not_ what he wanted to hear.

"Alright, if you bring me the gun, you can be on the task force. Great. Yeah, see you soon." She hung up in a visibly better mood. "Buchanan says in the previous cases, the murder weapon was discarded nearby. He'll do a grid search around the crime scene and see what he comes up with. That's some sharp detective work, going through the paper archives. He's going to join us here in Sacramento."

_Oh goodie_, thought Jane.

"It's a good career opportunity for him, of course," Lisbon was saying, "which is why he wants to deliver the files himself: keeps him close to the action."

"Oh yes. Very close. To the action."

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "Oh, come off it, Jane."

"I'm serious, I think he's developing quite the thing for you."

"Good to know I haven't lost it, after all these years," Lisbon deadpanned.

"You aren't interested, really?"

She had turned off the car and unbuckled her belt, already half-way out of the car. "Can you get out, I gotta go do some of that boring administrative stuff you like to ignore."

They rode the elevator up together. "Not your type?" Jane speculated. "But why not? He seems like a nice guy. Or maybe you don't like nice guys?" He wondered if Lisbon had a thing for the bad boys, like a lot of women who were preternaturally focused on following the rules. He tried to imagine Lisbon on the back of the motorcycle, but she kept climbing up front and insisting she could drive better.

"I like them just fine," she responded, "now can we not talk about this?"

"Come now, just two old friends, having a friendly conversation," said Jane playfully.

Hmm, #17 – _that_ wasn't good.

...

"Alright, guys, from what I understand the other cases are a good match: out-of-towners dumped in remote spots in the desert, killed execution-style with no sign of a robbery. You were right, Jane, the killers knew the area." Jane tried to look humble, but it wasn't his strong suit.

"So you're thinking it's some kind of serial killer? Er - pair of serial killers, according to Jane's theory of the case?" asked Rigsby.

"More like a hitman who uses the desert for his dumping ground," said Jane, knowing he could have been reading Lisbon's mind. "He lures them there on some pretext, does the deed and then disposes of the evidence."

"It explains why nothing was ever taken," Cho agreed - "no trophies, no valuables. Sounds like a professional."

"So what's our next step?" Van Pelt wanted to know.

"For today, let's find out why somebody would have wanted to take out a hit on Matt Castelhano. If his wife doesn't have a motive, maybe it's business."

"Are we sure there's nothing else going on in his personal life?" Jane speculated aloud. "Jealously can be a powerful motivation to kill someone."

...

They were coming up blank with the interviews. No, there was no evidence of an affair. Yes, the financial situation was fine and the relationship strong ("and not a lot of life insurance, either," Cho noted, cynically). Matt hadn't seemed especially nervous or excited lately. He had gone to work Monday morning as usual; his lunch was still on his desk, his computer still logged on. Around mid-afternoon he'd said he had to go run an errand - and nobody could recall seeing him after that.

Well, nobody except Lisbon, who would not soon be forgetting his sun-baked features peering up from a skeleton that had been over-exposed to the desert scavengers.

For some reason nobody could understand, Matt Castelhano had left his office in the middle of the workday and driven four hours into nowhere, stopping only to fill up his tank and (according to the receipt found among his effects) treat himself to a bag of Doritos and a half-liter of Sprite. Which comprised his stomach contents in the Coroner's report three days later. The half-empty bag of chips had been recovered from his ruined car.

There was something tragic about these tiny, unfinished details, thought Jane - he noticed it every time they searched the home of a recent victim. The pile of mail that would never be opened, the shoes left unworn which had never come out of the box. Oh yes, Jane was very familiar with these kind of relicts.

"Have we got the cell phone records yet?" Lisbon demanded, occupied with less sentimental reflection.

"They'll be here first thing tomorrow," answered Van Pelt. "You're thinking someone called him to set up a meet?"

"Well, something set him off. Check the phone records from his office, too - and the Senator's line."

"You got it, boss."

"Let's call it a night, I'm out of ideas," said Lisbon. "We'll start fresh tomorrow when Buchanan gets here with the new evidence - maybe they missed something last time."

Oh yeah, She was flashing #127, big-time – _if we don't catch a break on this soon, I'm going to shoot something._

_..._

The next morning he watched Lisbon's car pull into her spot at her customary 7:55, and waited impatiently for her to come through the door.

He would know she was interested, thought Jane, if she showed up having put any extra effort into her appearance; even one extra touch of makeup – she usually didn't wear much – or an outfit that looked a little too planned. Jane knew women very well. He would notice a change, even if nobody else would have.

From his spot on the worn leather couch, he watched her entrance; usual dark jeans, dark top, hasty French braid that looked, on closer inspection, a little lopsided. _Good girl, Lisbon_, he thought, smugly.

"Morning, Jane," she breezed past him. "Quit staring at me, you're freaking me out."

Buchanan arrived admirably early; Jane was just betting he was an early riser. "Any luck with that murder weapon?" asked Lisbon at once.

"Yes ma'am, as a matter of fact," Buchanan acknowledged, ducking his head in an aw-shucks country-boy display of modesty. "It's a snub-nosed .38, found it in a patch of gorse about 50 feet from the road. Unregistered, of course - straight from the manufacturer."

Lisbon nodded. "That fits with our theory of a professional," she noted absently. "It's a good bet he's got his own supplier."

"No prints," added Buchanan self-evidently.

As they both leaned over a file, Jane couldn't help but notice that they were built on the same scale, since Buchanan was on the short side and Lisbon definitely petite. _A matched set_, he thought sardonically. It didn't help that Rigsby loomed over them like a different species of human.

"That's what seems weird to me," Jane shoe-horned himself into the conversation. "This guy was wearing gloves, arrived armed and gave our victim directions to meet him in a remote location. And yet there's no evidence that our guy was suspicious, that he tried to get away, or that he suspected anything - right up until he went down on his knees in the dirt."

There was a thoughtful moment of silence following Jane's comment, but nobody had any insights to share. "I guess we just keep tracking down leads, see where they take us," said Lisbon, shrugging. "We get the phone records today, maybe that'll give us something to go off of."

Examining phone records was not Jane's specialty, so he retired to the couch. He watched Lisbon as she set everybody else to a task – including Buchanan – and went to go squint at her paperwork. It was shaping up to be a dull afternoon, from Jane's point of view.

To Lisbon, solving crime was like a net: you encircled the suspect on all sides with facts - the alibi, the money trail, the surveillance, the motive - and you slowly tighten this net until, no matter how they wriggle, they can't get away. No great display of strength, nothing flashy, but every time they exhale you squeeze a little tighter. A constricting approach to crime solving.

Jane didn't have time for all that work – he had a psychopath to murder.

It took a few hours for Rigsby to get a hit. "Boss, I've got rental car records that match the tire prints from the first murder, Ray McGillis. There's a drivers license that I've got to believe is fake, but the photo ID . . ."

Lisbon straightened up from her position leaning over her desk. "Anyone we know?" Buchanan was watching her as she worked the kinks out of her neck; Jane knew he was playing out a mental fantasy that started with him going over there and offering to help her with that. Little did he know, thought Jane smugly; Lisbon didn't like to be touched.

"There's no match in the database, but I put out a BOLO, just in case. The name is John Michaels." Rigsby displayed a photograph of an ordinary looking, light-haired man smiling for the camera.

"That's good work, Risby," said Lisbon.

"No calls on Castelhano's line that seem weird," Van Pelt chipped in; "But Senator Garza did call on his cell phone right before our guy drove off."

"Find out why," said Lisbon at once. Maybe Jane was the psychic, but she was known to have pretty good intuition, herself.

...

The rest of the day passed slowly for Jane, who was not actively engaged by things like _bank routing numbers_. Instead he spent the time reviewing Cho's interview notes, trying to read between the terse, understated lines of summary.

It was already late when Lisbon checked her watch and sighed. "Guess I'll send my team home."

"You're not leaving yourself?" asked Buchanan.

"I'm just waiting for the break," said Lisbon. "It's coming, I can feel it. I think I'm going to wait it out."

"But you don't have to do that from here, right? I mean, you could route your calls to your cell?"

"I guess, sure," said Lisbon blankly.

"Because I was thinking about hitting the range, if you wanted . . . ."

"Is that golf?" asked Jane, suddenly interested. "I just recently picked that up."

"No, shooting."

"I might come with you," Lisbon conceeded. "I've been meaning to go."

Buchanan got a cat-ate-the canary grin. "Great!"

Jane considered. His first instinct, of course, was to invite himself along, but he was not likely benefit by comparison to Buchanan in this particular arena. On the other hand, he couldn't just sit back and allow Lisbon and Buchanan to bond over their talent for killing things . . .

"Hmm, I think I need to brush up my skills, myself," he decided, finally. "I'd be more useful to the team if we got into a tight spot." This was a blatant lie, as Jane didn't like guns and wasn't planning to ever touch one again, no matter how tight the spot - the shotgun incident had been a complete one-off , and it hadn't improved his opinion of firearms.

"Great, we'll all go," said Buchanan, sounding decidedly put out.

_Next time -_

_"Teresa, it's late - who's at the door?" Jane froze; Lisbon blushed, her whole face and her exposed chest going up in flame._


	4. Sheriff Hardy

**Red Herring:**

Chapter Four

_I do not own any part of The Mentalist and am making no profit from this work of fanfiction._

**().().().().()**

"How do you like your Glock?" Buchanan asked Lisbon, as they walked through the interior door - the shooting range was in an appropriately dour, musty annex of the CBI headquarters. He'd been monopolizing her conversation the whole way down, and (Jane had to admit) she'd been letting him.

"Hmm, it's okay. Good stopping power. But sometimes I miss my Sig." They were the only ones in the room, which smelled of old sweat and gunpowder. Jane didn't want to be there and it was pretty clear Buchanan didn't want him there, either.

"It must be nice to be issued new weapons," said the other man, smiling; he showed Lisbon a shining silver semi-automatic that looked ridiculously large to Jane.

"Ooh, a .45 super," said Lisbon, obviously impressed, "that's your service piece?"

"Nah, this is my personal weapon. You want to take a shot?"

The symbolism was enough to make Jane retch; would you like to _test my weapon_, Agent Lisbon? It is very _large_ and _powerful._

"You don't mind, really?" asked Lisbon, obviously tempted. She was already reaching for the safety glasses and the ear muffs.

"Oh no, you go ahead."

Three rounds, three holes, any one of which would have been fatal, in Jane's estimation.

"I figured you'd be good at this," said Buchanan, shaking his head.

Jane, watching her body language, perceived that Lisbon was predictably uncomfortable with this compliment – she didn't like to be thanked or praised, he had noticed it before. But she looked pleased, too.

"Jane, you're welcome to give it a try," said Buchanan decently. Unfortunately, Jane hadn't really wanted to get roped in to this particular metaphor.

"Um, okay," he said, gathering his gear and walking reluctantly to the bench where Lisbon had left the Sig. "Any – ah – tips?"

Buchanan cast a look at Lisbon; she shook her head. "I'm not teaching him," she said quickly; "you can, if you want to."

"I heard you used to be an instructor," said Buchanan, sounding surprised.

Jane knew why Lisbon didn't want to teach him; she didn't want to be responsible in any way for helping him to kill Red John. _Sorry Teresa_, he thought, _but there's nothing you can do to stop me_. Teach him, don't teach him - Lisbon could try to keep her hands clean, but nothing would stop him from getting his dirty.

Wordlessly she collected her own gun and took it to a different station, where she began firing quick, successive rounds without seeming to flinch.

Buchanan stepped up to teach him what to do, which Jane found amusing; he was waiting for the clichéd scene, Buchanan with his arms around Jane as he taught him to shoot. But Buchanan was brisker than that, handing him the loaded gun and instructing him to 'always keep it pointed that way,' meaning away from them.

The gun felt bad in his hand, heavy and cold. His immediate instinct was to put it down, but he couldn't, not with Lisbon nearby and probably watching, not as long as Buchanan would be so happy about it.

He took his time, trying to cover this sudden attack of nerves. He knew that the gun he was holding was going to explode, that the noise would be loud, that it would jump in his grip. It was like holding a mini-bomb, and he kind of wanted to keep it from going off.

"Jane, you don't have to do this," said Lisbon, coming carefully to stand behind him. "You don't need a firearm certification to be a consultant for the CBI. That's what we're here for."

"I can do it," he said.

He looked at the target and tried to see it as Lisbon probably saw it: just a collection of lines, a place to aim, not as a person. It was surprisingly difficult to convince himself to fire. Killing Hardy had been the work of an instant, literally over in a flash. This was much more – deliberate. _Red John_, thought Jane. _Imagine that this is the person who took away everything you loved, everything you cared about_ . . .

He fired. The shot went wide, but not as bad as it could have been; if the target had been a man, it would have taken out his shoulder blade.

"Good," said Lisbon calmly, as if nothing at all unusual had happened. Jane on the other hand could feel his heart pounding in the aftermath of the shot; it had been loud and startling, just as he had expected, and he felt faintly sick. He was glad it was over.

Buchanan had meanwhile taken up Lisbon's Glock and was firing at her abandoned target; Jane had a pretty good guess who he was imagining shooting.

Having seemingly overcome her previous resistance, Lisbon willingly helped him set up another shot. As he had expected, she was a good teacher, patient and knowledgeable – always the big sister. "OK, Jane, so between breaths there is a natural pause. A moment of stillness, right? You probably use this for your voodoo stuff."

"Yes, that's exactly what I use it for," said Jane, straight-faced.

"Well, in shooting, that's the moment when you want to take your shot. Otherwise you jostle your arms with your body's natural motions. You don't want to jerk the trigger, you just want to squeeze it slowly until the shot becomes a natural extension of the movement."

Well, yeah, but it still _exploded._

Jane made it through the next six rounds without throwing up, which he considered an accomplishment, all things considered. Surely one of those bullets would have, ah, 'stopping power'? "Is this what it's like for you – in the field?" he asked, managing to tactfully avoid saying, _when you kill somebody_?

"I don't even have to think about it anymore," said Lisbon, "it's all muscle memory. It's automatic. It'll be the same for you, if you practice. Do you want to reload?"

"No," said Jane, putting the gun sideways on the table, the way she had shown him, with the muzzle pointed well away. "You've given me plenty to think about. Thanks, Lisbon." He flashed her a quick charm smile.

"All done playing?" asked Buchanan.

"She's all yours," Jane answered. He was definitely talking about the gun. Buchanan took it, reloaded, and went back to firing.

"Jane, I'm sorry I didn't want to teach you at first," said Lisbon softly. "I guess it was stupid. If you're going to learn, I'd rather you learn from me. I was an instructor, after all. At least I can teach you right."

"Are you saying Buchanan did a bad job?" Jane suggested innocently. "And he seems like such a nice guy."

Unsurprisingly, Lisbon didn't seem to pick up on Jane's hostility. She could be quite obtuse when she wanted to – like when she was trying to get her team to play happy families. "I'm sure he did fine," she said, "but I could do better." He could see a familiar little smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"That's very sweet," said Jane, looking at her consideringly. "You didn't want to show me because of who I might use it on, right?"

"No," she said, surprised, "I didn't think of that. Although now I'm thinking of it – " she narrowed her eyes. "I just – didn't want you to get any closer to the death, that's all. I'd rather have you stay to the side and leave the cop stuff to the team." A rueful smile. "Maybe I am afraid you won't need us anymore!"

The was able to assure her truthfully: "That will never happen."

"I'm glad you didn't like it," she confessed. "But remember, if you're doing it for the right reasons, it's not really you shooting. It's the California Bureau of Investigations, acting _through _you."

"And what _are_ the right reasons, exactly?"

"To uphold the law. To protect and serve. They're not just words, Jane - not to me, not to the team, not to Buchanan." She nodded to where the other man was standing in a perfect firing stance, totally focused on the task at hand. No matter what he thought about Lisbon and Jane (and Jane was pretty sure the words _cock block_ featured somewhere) he wasn't going to let it interfere with his concentration, not when people's lives could depend on it.

Okay, maybe Jane felt a _teensy_ bit petty in comparison.

Lisbon was interrupted mid-lecture by her cell phone, which buzzed discretely at her waist. She glanced down at the screen and her face imperceptibly changed, almost too fast for Jane to decode it. "Excuse me," said neutrally, stepping aside for a moment.

"So how did you like your lesson?" Buchanan inquired of Jane.

He looked up from watching Lisbon type. Who was she texting? "The teacher was nice, but the curriculum sucked," he answered glumly.

"Alright, it's getting late," said Lisbon, returning to their booth with her cell phone tucked away again. "If this thing's gonna break, it's going to be tomorrow, apparently. Buchanan, thanks for inviting us, it was good to get in some practice time."

"I'm glad you could make it," said Buchanan sincerely. While he was casting about for something else to say, Lisbon squeezed Jane's shoulder and turned on her heel to walk down the hallway.

Buchanan's voice was absent, his eyes fixed on her departing figure: "She's something, huh?"

_Up to something, maybe_, thought Jane.

...

Because he never slept, Jane was still mulling over the case well after midnight, sitting on his bed his pajama pants. He couldn't help thinking that he was, so far, short one miraculous case-solving insight on this murder – no wonder Lisbon's attention was straying towards other, more useful detectives, ones who found murder weapons and made connections to old cases.

And could shoot. Uh, without wanting to throw up.

Mentally, he reviewed the files he had been reading that afternoon, the interviews with the Senator and his staff. He could recall them word-for-word, of course, so he was scanning through them at top speed, feeling the familiar tug of intuition pulling at his brain. What was triggering it? The words ran smoothly in front of his eyes, then sputtered and skipped at " . . . an integral part of my campaign for reelection - Matt was irreplaceable." That was the word: _irreplaceable_.

Jane felt his skin crawl, the way it did when he stumbled onto something they hadn't considered before. He pulled his laptop over and opened a web browser, typing in some search terms – before he even finished skimming the results, he was reaching for his button-down shirt and his keys.

...

Jane drove quickly through the dark streets, directing his Citroën to an address he had seen in a file. As it turned out, Lisbon lived in an unassuming apartment building in a blue-collar neighborhood. The brick structure was crammed into its space on the street, between converted warehouses that now served as office space.

There was no doorman and the external doors were propped open with a phonebook; Jane reflected that this was a far cry from life in Malibu. And the elevator wasn't working, so he had to climb two flights of stairs. But the hallways were quiet and clean, and the doors had been recently repainted sparkling white.

12B – 13A – 14A – ah, 14B. She was awake, he could see light under the door. That made it a little easier, since he might have felt guilty dropping in on her (or maybe not). He knocked briskly.

No answer.

Was there a bell? Oh, there it was – he rang. Twice.

Finally, he heard footsteps approaching the door – Jane straightened up, prepared to be charming.

"Jane?"

"Lisbon! I figured out who would want to kill Matt Castelhano," he beamed.

"How do you even know where I live?" asked Lisbon stupidly, half-opening the door with obvious reluctance.

She was wearing a tank-top (no bra, Jane noticed, his eyes immediately skating away) and pajama shorts that appeared to have been pulled on a little hastily, if the bunched, uneven waistband was any indication. Interesting. Did Teresa Lisbon sleep in just her panties?

His eyes come to rest safely on her sleep-tousled hair (it was more curly than he would have guessed, in its natural state) and her sleepy, somewhat dazed face, innocently bare of any makeup except the eyeliner she hadn't entirely washed off - now slightly smudged. It was a good look for her, he couldn't help thinking, she looked entirely – ah, kissable, actually - _whoops_, that thought hadn't been entirely planned.

"Did you hear the part about the motive I discovered?"

"Uh, yes, caught that, thanks." Lisbon blinked, shook her head. "Okay, tell me."

Jane grinned – he knew she wouldn't be able to resist. Now to ingratiate himself into the apartment . . . "You're cold," he bargained, watching the rising goosebumps on her arms. "What are you thinking about, answering the door half-dressed? We need to make some tea."

Lisbon scowled. "Just tell me what you found," she ordered, tightening her grip on the door and pulling it defensively a little closer.

Interesting. By taking a half-step to the right, he could see over her shoulder – she was so short, bless her, that she could never block a view with her body (however distracting that body might be).

Through the crack of the door, Jane could make out a stretch of the painted white wood-work, and the dark wood of the floor panels –

And the shape of a suitcase.

Someone was here.

"Jane – " said Lisbon.

Jane's first thought was that he would kill Buchanan, if it was him. He would _kill_ him.

"Teresa, it's late - who's at the door?" Jane froze; Lisbon blushed, her whole face and her exposed chest going up in flame.

Not Buchanan.

"It's work," she called back. "Jane, spill. Or we can go over this tomorrow. Or you could, you know, call me with information like this."

"I tried," Jane responded, his voice sounding distant in his own ears. "It went straight to machine."

"So you decided to come over," said Lisbon, nodding wearily. "Got it." She maintained her death-grip on the door.

"Babe?"

Lisbon closed her eyes. "Wait here a minute," she ordered Jane, turning around and shutting the door firmly behind her. Jane could hear the murmur of voices, but no individual words.

_Babe_.

He ran the man's voice through his mental audio files, trying to decide if he knew this person – was it, perhaps, that smarmy ADA who always tried to flirt with her when they worked a case together? Or anybody from the CBI office? No, this was an unfamiliar voice, someone he had ever met before. And he hated him already.

Lisbon came back out into the hallway, clutching a robe around herself and pulling the door deliberately closed.

"Who is that?" asked Jane immediately.

"Nobody. I mean, he's somebody, but he's nobody you know. Nobody you need to know about."

"He could be a crazy psychopath," Jane pointed out, "look what happened when Van Pelt got a boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend, he's just a . . . good friend," said Lisbon lamely. "I've known him a long time, and I promise, he's not a crazy psychopath. Okay?"

There were words for that, Jane knew, but he was too polite to mention them. "I see."

"Don't see anything," Lisbon instructed, her eyes narrowed. "Don't think anything, don't judge me, just tell me who you think had Matt Castelhano killed."

It was on the tip of Jane's tongue to push a little harder. It was his nature, regrettably, and something in Lisbon's face when she'd said, _I've known him a long time,_ was interesting to him – there was a tension there, not exactly the sign of a lie, but a sure sign that there was more to the story.

But then Jane looked into her pinched, somewhat pleading face and relented. "Okay," he said.

"Okay? Really?" Lisbon had been holding the robe around herself like a shield, but she loosened her grip on the belt and Jane caught a glimpse of pale skin, glowing like a pearl.

"Really. I'm happy for you. I'm glad you have - extra-curricular hobbies."

"Well, thank you," she said, still suspicious. "Tell me about Castelhano."

"The Senator's wife," said Jane. "She didn't want him to run again."

Lisbon turned this over in her mind. "I'll look into it," she said. "First thing tomorrow." She turned back to the door.

"I should have called," said Jane.

"I'll forgive you, if you crack the case."

"I'm sorry."

"I'll talk to you about this tomorrow, Jane," said Lisbon firmly. "Goodnight." She closed the door.

"Good night, Lisbon," said Jane very gently. She wouldn't know what a favor he was doing her, letting this go, for now. Letting her walk back to that man in there. For now. "Goodnight."

_Next time:_

He watched Lisbon walk back and forth with fixed, unblinking eyes; _predator eyes_, thought Jane.


	5. Jorge Gonzalez

**Red Herring:**

Chapter Five

_I do not own any part of The Mentalist and am making no profit from this work of fanfiction._

**().().().().()**

True to her word, by the time Jane showed up (late) to work the next morning, Lisbon had set the team on Maria Garza, and to good effect. The call made to Matt Castelhano had come from the Senator's cell phone, alright – which he had left at home that day, according to the cell towers. Mrs. Garza had also been making regular withdrawals, in cash, from a private account over the last year. Never more than a thousand dollars at a time, the total sum came to thirty-thousand dollars. "Half the money down, in advance," speculated Buchanan.

Cho was sent to interview her and, confronted with the evidence, she didn't hold out long. Yes, she had paid to have Matt killed. No, she didn't know who it was that she'd hired, he was just a phone number given to her by one of her husband's business connections. She'd left the money in a PO box after he'd mailed her a key. Her husband had known nothing.

"She says she asked Matt to drop off hush-money to cover up a scandal for her, to keep him from getting suspicous," reported Cho "I guess it worked."

"Sad," said Grace. "He thought he was doing her a favor . . ."

"Apparently the Senator had promised not to run again, but was considering a re-election campaign. Mrs. Garza was testing the theory that he couldn't do it without Matt."

"That's cold," said Rigsby, shaking his head.

Jane shrugged. "That's politics."

...

"Jane - good work," said Lisbon. "We got this from your tip." She gave him a quick smile, and her eyes darted just as quickly away. Although her behavior was typically brisk and decisive, she had been careful to avoid eye contact all morning.

"Yeah, man," agreed Buchanan, giving him a manly clap on the shoulder of approbation. "Now I see why she gives you such a long leash."

Jane took the compliment as it was given, offering a friendly nod in return. It was a lot easier to like Buchanan now that he knew Lisbon didn't want either one of them.

"Now we just need to track down the shooter."

"That's going to be tough," Buchanan pointed out, "professionals know the tricks."

"Yeah, well, we know a lot of tricks too," said Lisbon grimly. "Let's look at what we know and go from there."

"Okay," said Rigsby, shuffling through a stack of papers. "The key mailed to Maria Garza was postmarked Gardnerville, California, which is . . . in the middle of nowhere. The phone number was a disposable cell. The PO Box had been paid up for the year in cash, and never used again."

"He's smart," said Van Pelt, mournfully.

Lisbon frowned. "Where did he buy the cell?"

"Comes back to a Wal-Mart in - ah, Carson City, Nevada."

"Our guy gets around," noted Jane.

"Then a week later he's back in Gardnerville to rent the PO Box."

Silence.

Then Buchanan slammed his hand down on the desk, making every one jump. "I don't believe it," he said. "Mono County, Bridgeport to Carson City by way of Gardnerville - that's the ESTA bus line. The bastard's on the bus."

"Not just on it," Jane pointed out - "he's taking it back and forth, repeatedly."

"Buchanan, get on the phone to the Sherriff. Tell him to run the employees at the Transit Authority, and anybody with an annual pass. Compare them to the description on the BOLO." Buchanan whipped out his cell phone and turned aside. "Meanwhile, Van Pelt, see if we can find any other crimes along the bus route - expand the search beyond the state line." Lisbon looked annoyed. "Damn, I hope he hasn't killed anyone in Nevada or we'll lose this case to the Feds."

Jane sat out the bustle of activity that followed, trying not to notice that Lisbon kept finding reasons not to be alone with him. She rotated between Van Pelt, Buchanan, and her cell phone, which kept her in touch with Cho in booking.

Finally Buchanan got the call they'd been waiting for. "Uh huh. Uh huh. Yup, got that. Okay, thanks." He hung up, took a deep breath, and looked around. Then he grinned. "Got the bastard."

...

It took some time – and Lisbon's strong-arm tactics – to get the man identified as John Michaels out of Mammoth Lake lockup and into the interrogation room at the CBI.

It was certainly the face in the driver's license photo: same close-cropped, sandy-colored hair and deep-set eyes, but his fingerprints came back as belonging to a Michael Lempert.

"Lempert," said Buchanan thoughtfully. "There's a bunch of Lemperts out at Mono Lake. Could be a cousin?"

"It all fits, boss," said Rigsby. "If he's got family in the area, he would know the backroads, and there's people he can call to help him clean up the scene."

"Except at the moment, he's still claiming to be John Michaels, and we need more to go on before we shake him," said Lisbon, shaking her head. "We've got nothing but a tenuous connection to a rental car that _may_ have been used in a five-year-old murder, and the entirely circumstantial evidence that he happens to drive a bus." She frowned. "Buchanan, see what you can find out about any possible accomplices. Van Pelt, keep digging into the alias, maybe we'll find something. Rigsby, go in with our friend and warm him up."

"Can I sit in?" asked Jane at once.

"It depends, by _sit in_ do you mean disrupt Rigsby's interrogation and make a pest of yourself, or actually contribute and be useful?"

"Well, certainly one or the other," said Jane cheerfully, preparing to duck in after Rigsby.

"Jane" – she snagged his sleeve as he moved past her - "Leave this one to the people with guns, okay? He's dangerous."

Jane pouted, but he was secretly a little pleased at her concern. Wordlessly, he joined her at the observation window.

Up close, Michaels was younger than Jane had expected, neatly dressed in a button-up shirt and slacks. He also sported a well-maintained mustache and goatee. He looked like someone that would sell you a new digital camera.

When he spoke, his voice was perfectly even. "Do you mind telling me what I'm doing here?"

"Sir, if your story checks out you'll be on your way." Rigsby didn't mean that, Jane knew – it was just one of those things cops say.

"But what's this about?"

"This is what it's about." Rigsby laid out a series of photographs taken at the crime scene. Pete McGillis' slack face taken at close-range, the inside of his head visible, and a snap of another man's body stretched out on the sand. Matt Castelhano's lose, open fingers against a backdrop of dust.

"I'm sorry, officer, I don't know anything about this," said Michaels, examining the pictures with no visible emotion. "Looks like nasty business, though."

Next to Jane, Lisbon shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

"You don't recognize them, Sir? I would have thought they'd look familiar."

Jane, although listening to Rigsby, couldn't keep his mind from also wandering to the woman at his side. _Who was he, this man that Lisbon was – seeing? What kind of a man did Lisbon like? He would have to be tolerant, to share Lisbon with her passion for the job. Nobody too demanding, obviously._

"These are the men we believe you murdered, Mr. Michaels."

"I'm sorry, officer. Not me."

_Lisbon needed someone to help her loosen up, keep her from taking things too seriously. Did this guy make her laugh? Or blush?_

"Oh, you killed them, Mr. Michaels. You lured them out to the desert and you shot them."

_Did this guy know how lucky he was? _

"We've already gotten what we need, Mr. Michaels. We have Maria Garza in custody. Maybe you deposited the payment already, we'll find that account. Maybe you hid the cash, that's okay. We'll find it and track the bank numbers." Jane knew Risby was bluffing; there was no way he had the serial numbers. Another cop thing.

"I don't know what you want me to say," said Michaels, holding his hands out in front of him. "Do I need a lawyer?"

"This isn't working," said Lisbon, blowing out a breath in frustration. "This guy runs cool, he's not going to rattle."

"He did it," said Jane. "All of it. The creepiness gives him away."

"Sorry, Jane, we can't arrest him for being creepy," said Lisbon, rolling her eyes. "We're going to need some more of that what-do-you-call-it, evidence stuff."

"Or a confession."

Detective Buchanan came to stand beside them, shaking his head. "It could be any of his cousins," he said, "we have no way of knowing. And we've got nothing definitive linking him to the scene."

"He knows it, too," said Lisbon. "He's not an amateur like Ms. Garza. We're getting nowhere." For a moment she was silent, lost in thought. Then she turned to Buchanan. "Do you have a cigarette?"

"No, of course not," said Buchanan, looking surprised and just a little sheepish. Lisbon rolled her eyes. "Maybe? Okay, yes." He pulled a pack out of his breast coat pocket and offered a stick to Lisbon.

She patted her pockets for matches, and after he obligingly provided a lighter, she took the pack out of Buchanan's hand, leaving him with the single cigarette. "I'll, uh, buy you another," she said as she turned away.

She backed into the interrogation room with the pack in one hand and the lighter in the other. "Thanks, Rigsby," she said, nudging the door shut with her hip. Jane immediately noticed that she had dropped her voice to a lower pitch.

Whatever communication passed between her and Rigsby, it happened quickly. He got up without a word and left with his notebook, leaving the stack of photos on the table.

Michaels watched Lisbon walk back and forth with fixed, unblinking eyes; _predator eyes_, thought Jane. He suddenly wanted to be in there with her.

"Mind if I smoke?" asked Lisbon, dropping the pack on the table.

"No ma'am."

She even _moved_ differently, pulling out the chair with her foot, her posture loose and easy, gently swinging herself down into the seat. "Thanks." She turned over the pack and tapped it against her wrist, then selected a cigarette and lit it, inhaling through the flame.

What was she doing? Lisbon always played her interrogations straight.

Finally she exhaled with evident satisfaction, waving a hand to dissipate the smoke.

Jane was beginning to wonder how well he really knew Agent Lisbon, anyway.

"Don't tell anyone," she said conspiratorially. "Public building, etc."

"No, ma'am."

She set the lighter on the table between them, within easy reach of either side. Beside him, Jane felt Buchanan tense.

"They say you're a killer, Mr. Michaels," said Lisbon, her voice rougher from the smoke.

Michaels minutely relaxed. "Who says that?"

Lisbon lifted a hand. "Higher-ups."

"Is that what you believe?"

She breathed smoke through her nose like a dragon. "Yup."

"So what are you doing here?" He studied her with his colorless eyes.

"Oh, they sent me in," she said nonchalantly.

"Why?"

A thick stream of smoke. "Because, Mr. Michaels, no one understands a professional killer – like another professional killer." She inhaled deeply.

"You," said Michaels, evidently disbelieving.

"I'm a cop," said Lisbon. "You think I don't kill people? I've probably killed more people than you. And here's me on this side of the table, and you over there." She laughed without humor. "Life's just not fair, is it?"

"You're some weird kind of cop, ma'am."

"That's the damn truth," said Lisbon. "Folks from my class at the academy are out there writing parking tickets, never having pulled a gun. Me? Highest kill rate in the department."

He was listening.

She studied the cigarette in her hand, then flicked off the ash. "You know how it is."

"No, I don't."

"I'm sorry, maybe you shouldn't be talking, Mr. Michaels. You probably ought to call that lawyer, hmm?"

Michaels leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"Now let's see what we've got here," said Lisbon, motioning to the pictures spread across the table. She selected a photograph and held it up. "Paul Ruggers. Never knew what hit him, eh? Good shot, too – from maybe 5, 10 feet; very clean. That's nice control. My personal best is 25." She shook ash on the floor and took a deep drag. "Through a car window, no less. Not too tidy, though." She shrugged. "Whatever works."

"Whoever this guy is, I guess he's pretty talented," said Michaels, flatly.

"You're supposed to keep silent," Lisbon warned. "I'm talking now. Where was I - oh yeah." She tapped the photo of Ray McGillis.

"Now this one, not such a neat job. Your first, maybe? First one's usually tough. Mine was an 18-year–old carjacker, name of Jorge Gonzalez."

Michaels' eyes flicked to hers.

"Ah, no one forgets their first," she said. "This kid, barely been in the country two weeks. This is out in San Francisco, my first post. He pulls a piece on my partner and I – well, you know. Just like that." Lisbon snapped her fingers, and the noise was startling in the quiet room. "Just like you practice. Except when you do it for real, you look up and there's an actual person there, bleeding out. And it's so effortless for you. So convenient. I tell, you it's a terrible thing."

She stubbed out the cigarette in her hand and reached immediately for another, repeating the elaborate ritual of lighting it. She left the butt on the table where it steamed faintly.

Jane didn't like to see it so close to her unprotected flesh. He wished badly that he was holding another shotgun.

"Jorge Gonzales," she repeated fondly, "I owe him my career. I got a commendation out of that kill. Six months later, I'm out of uniform." She smiled mirthlessly. "Of course that was only the first. You know how many people I've shot?"

"No," said Michaels.

"Me neither. It's only in the movies that people count their kills, right? In real life, they all – ah, you know – they all blur together. One corpse or another, just so many stinking piles of meat."

Well, _that_ was graphic.

She stood up and walked to the mirror, her walk lazy and slow, like a jazz singer on a stage. "Just so many black bags on wheels."

By now there was an audience; Cho and Risby had come to watch the interrogation, and Van Pelt was standing in the corner looking nervous.

Behind her back, Michaels reached for the abandoned photograph.

"Only the first one stands out," said Lisbon, with nostalia.

Michaels lovingly stroked the edge of the picture. Ray McGillis' dead face stared blankly back at him.

"He saw it coming, though, didn't he. He turned his head away at the last second. That's sloppy work. Me, I've got it down to an art. Just last week, actually" (Jane sucked in a quiet breath) "Just last week I shot a guy, stone-dead, he didn't even have time to flinch. That's how to do it right."

"Who was he?" asked Michaels.

"Who cares? My people got out safe, that's all I care about. I don't keep track any more."

"Who does," said Michaels, watching her, rapt.

It was like a form of trance, Jane realized – half hypnotism, half seduction . . . she had created a separate world, just her and him, and he was drunk with the smoke, the words, and _her_, like a woman from another time, like a goddess, sultry and vicious.

"Now this one," Lisbon turned abruptly and tapped the photo of Matt Castelhano. "This was good work. How the hell did you get him to trust you? He must've just lined up for it. I tell you, people are dumb. All the people I've shot, there's nobody that didn't deserve it. It's almost too easy."

Michaels leaned forward in his chair.

"But you gotta do what you're good at, right?" asked Lisbon rhetorically. "Everybody's got to make a living."

"That's right," said Michaels.

"These people. Nobody's going to miss them. Look at me, ten years of shooting crack dealers and rapists, I'm gonna make a pension off of it. What do you have, at the end of the day?"

"Just the memories," said Michaels.

"Shit," breathed Rigsby. "Holy shit." Next to him, Buchanan lurched for the Record button, stabbing at it with a meaty finger. They all breathed a sigh of relief when the red light flicked on.

"And the money," Lisbon laughed. "Maybe you're the smart one, I've gotta pay taxes on what I make." She turned back to face him, leaned over the table with her half-burned cigarette in her extended hand.

"It's easy," said Michaels, "it's like picking up cash off the street."

"Yeah, I bet."

"People are like sheep, they never figure it out in time. Once they meet me out there, it's already too late."

"These three," said Lisbon, "but who else?"

"Just them," said Michaels, staring at the photographs. "Guess I'm not as good as you, yet."

...

When it was all over, Lisbon walked slowly to the door. Jane, intimately familiar with the letdown after a successful séance, watched her visibly deflate with every step. For a moment he wanted to pull her into a hug, wanted to tuck her head under his chin and smell her hair, even though there was a good chance that it would smell like smoke. His hands itched at his sides - he had to physically hold himself back. Where was this coming from?

She came out into the observation room, her face tight, and spat into a trash can. "Ugh."

Jane took her elbow in a firm grasp, hustling her into her office. "Let me get you something to drink," he suggested, once she was ensconced in her chair. "Sit here."

"Jane – " she started to protest, but he overruled her.

"Just for a moment."

Tragically, when he returned Buchanan had invaded the sanctity of her office. He was leaning against her desk talking, apparently unaware of Lisbon's wavering attention. Couldn't he see that she was worn out? The Detective had a familiar look in his eye, and Jane found himself getting annoyed all over again. What, was Lisbon the only attractive woman in the world, all of a sudden? Where was Grace, and why wasn't she wearing something scanty today? Jane cast a baleful eye at her masculine suit and low ponytail, which she fortunately missed since she was concentrating on her computer screen.

"It was really something in there," the other man was saying, obviously impressed, as Jane inserted himself between them. "How did you know how to work him?"

Lisbon shook her head dismissively. "Experience," she said, accepting Jane's full glass with a grateful smile. "A man like that, he wants someone to understands his – work. The effort that he puts into it." She sipped slowly. "Which wasn't enough, obviously, given how many leads he left us. But in his mind, he's an artist. And every artist wants recognition."

"Finish all of that," warned Jane, watching her like a hawk.

Lisbon gave him a mock-salute, but did take a long swallow of the water.

"I guess we've got him. Nothing left but to tie up the paperwork," said Buchanan thoughtfully. He cleared his throat and stood a little straighter. "Listen, Agent Lisbon – Teresa." Jane looked up, startled. Was he really going to do this here? With him in the room? Huh. "I'd like to take you out sometime, if you'd be interested." A beat. "Maybe I could call you?"

Well, you couldn't fault the man for being forthright.

Jane looked at Lisbon's face and realized, to his horror, that he had no idea what she was going to say. It was like being suddenly struck blind (and he should know). He had _always_ known what Lisbon was thinking, ever since his first day on the job (her initial thought: _this guy is going to make my life a lot harder_).

She let out a breath. "That's very sweet of you, Jim," said Lisbon gently. "I'm sorry I can't take you up on it. But I'm good, thanks." She stood and walked over to him. "And I want you to know, I really appreciate your hard work on this case. You ever want to make the switch to the big city, you say the word and I'll do what I can."

Buchanan's shoulders drooped a little, but quickly regained their level set. "At least I tried," he said, letting her guide him out with good humor, if a little regret.

_Well, he doesn't deserve her, then,_ thought Jane. When he asked Lisbon out, he wouldn't take No for an answer.

Um - he meant, _if_ he were ever to ask her out, hypothetically speaking. Obviously.

Jane watched Lisbon regain her seat and finish her water, then reached to take away her empty glass.

Alone at last.

"Was that for _him_?" he asked, meaning (and Lisbon knew he meant) her mystery guest of the previous night.

"It's not like that with us," she said, clearly resigned to having this conversation. "Jane, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about – my friend. Maybe I should have said something. I didn't know he was coming into town."

"He just shows up from time to time?"

"Something like that."

"I see." Why should it bother him, Jane wondered; it was Lisbon's body, Lisbon's choice. If she wanted a little uncomplicated sex, why should it make him angry? More to the point, why would the terms _Lisbon's body_ and _uncomplicated sex_ make him want to break a window?

"Jane, in the real world, people are busy, they have complicated lives . . ."

"You need release, I get it," said Jane, nodding wisely. "Sometimes I pick up strange women in bars."

"No you don't," said Lisbon, rolling her eyes, "you don't even take off your wedding ring."

"Okay, but just to be clear, if I did go into a bar and I wanted to pick up a woman, I'm sure I could."

"I believe you."

"So then, why did you turn down Buchanan? He seems like a good man. Good cop."

"Yes, he is. But I'm not going to date a colleague," said Lisbon. "It always gets messy."

"He isn't even working with us anymore," said Jane, puzzled. "Surely the Bureau wouldn't mind."

"It's not about the Bureau, it's about me. My rule. You don't crap where you eat, everybody knows that."

"How – vivid," said Jane faintly.

"You asked why," said Lisbon, shrugging. "That's why."

"So poor Buchanan never had a chance?"

"I guess not."

One could wonder why, having heard exactly what he wanted to hear, Jane wasn't feeling better about it. "Is it always all about the job?"

Lisbon looked surprised. "Of course it is. Every day, we help people, we catch criminals. We have the most important job in the world. "

"What about curing cancer, or - feeding Romanian orphans?" suggested Jane.

Lisbon shrugged. "I'm better at this."

He smiled. "So you know it's not true, what you said in there. You're not just a hit-man - uh, woman."

"Well, most of it was kind of true. But it's not _all_ that's true," said Lisbon. "I didn't talk about the reasons why."

"So, why?"

"To keep the things I love – safe." Seeing his expression, she colored and quickly added, "by which I mean, the state of California, of course."

"Of course." Jane was surprised to find that he still wanted to hug her. Okay, well he didn't want to hug her exactly. That wasn't quite the right word for the things he wanted to do. Maybe it was the first thing he wanted to do. But there were other things after that. Oh yes.

She was already frowning at her desk, which was piled with paperwork. "Now if we're finished here . . ." she indicated the amount of work she had to do.

"Of course," said Jane, gathering himself to leave.

Was there anything less convenient, he wondered, than falling in love with a professional woman – a woman who put her job before everything, a woman who was already involved with someone else, a woman who had just rejected a better man than you?

No question about it, this was going to be a major undertaking. It looked as though he really had his work cut out for him. Yep, definitely a full-time job.

Fortunately, he had a pretty good example of dogged determination in front of him . . .

Jane smiled. Oh, this was going to be _fun_.

**FIN**

_Thanks to everyone who read or reviewed!_

_Next time (in __Rose-Colored Glasses__) - _  
"Jane tries to manipulate Lisbon into confessing her feelings for him, using a variety of underhanded and overly-complicated techniques."


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